Tinkerbell
by Redgauntlet
Summary: A close encounter for the young Al Calavicci.


TINKERBELL

TINKERBELL

**by Michael S. Oliver**

AUGUST 23, 1965 

'Good afternoon, gentlemen. This board of enquiry stands convened.' The heavy-set man with the captain's insignia leaned back in his chair, took a long draw on his cigarette. 'All right, commander, let's go over the thing again. Start from the beginning, and take your time. Don't leave out anything you think may be important.'

'Yes, sir.' The man on the other side of the table was younger and wore a slightly nervous expression. He'd been promised he'd been given a fair hearing, but to Albert Calavicci, Lieutenant Commander, U.S. Navy, that line was right up there with 'the cheque's in the mail' and 'I promise I'll respect you in the morning'.

Calavicci took a deep breath, looked at the men facing him: the base's senior officer, Rear Admiral Winthrop; his inquisitor, an off-base captain called Bach; and a third man who made no effort to identify himself, and was pinning him with his stare like a lab researcher pinning something to a microscope slide. Not for the first time, he wondered why Bach – probably the lowest-ranked of the three – was so obviously taking charge. Navy politics; never his strong suit. 'Well, it was about a week ago…'

'Ten days. Let's be as precise as possible.'

'Right, sir. Ten days. I was flying a Phantom on a training run. Nothing real spectacular; we do that sort of stuff all the time…'

'Eglin Base, this is Easy Charlie Five, do you copy?'

The voice in Al's headphones was coming through clearly, unless you counted the speaker's slow Arkansas drawl. 'We copy, Charlie Five. You are comin' up on the edge of our radar, lookin' good. Estimate out of radar range in three minutes. How's the fishin' tonight, Albert? They bitin' good?'

Al shook his head slowly. Tom Bodine was the only man he knew who insisted on calling him 'Albert'; his idea of politeness. 'How should I know, you dumb cracker? I'm five thousand feet up over the Atlantic.'

'Who you callin' "cracker", guinea?'

'I just hope Teresa knows what she's lettin' herself in for.'

'I guess so; but you just be sure you get your skinny guinea butt to church Saturday, then you can tell her yourself.'

'Wild horses couldn't keep me away.'

'See they don't.' Tom's voice put aside thoughts of his bride-to-be, dropped the friendly insults, became formal. 'Easy Charlie Five, you are advised to continue to radar perimeter in two minutes and turn on bearing two-five-niner at that time.'

'Roger, Eglin. Two minutes on my mark.' Al glanced at his watch, on the outside of his flight suit where he could see it with minimal movement. 'Mark.'

The radio fell silent; Al yawned, loudly. Night flying was a bear, but he figured that the more night-time hours he got in, the better his chances of making the cut when applications for the NASA programme were reviewed. So ran the scuttlebutt on the base, at any rate; and the brass weren't nearly as tight as they liked to think about keeping this stuff under wraps. The rumour was that this time, they really were going to go for the Moon, that they were going to make JFK's vision a reality. Think about it; Al Calavicci, first man on the Moon…

Well, a man could dream, couldn't he?

Al checked the watch. Fifteen seconds. He began to ease the stick sideward, sending the F-4 Phantom into a slow, leftward turn, nice and gentle. Bring her home, get out of this sodden flight suit and sack out. Tomorrow – no, today, now – was Friday, and he wanted to get through it with as little grief as possible before Tom's wedding on Saturday.

The flash of white light above his cockpit drove off all thoughts of the impending nuptials. _Something_ had just passed directly over his head, damned near close enough for him to strike a match on its hull. Al banked the plane into a tighter turn, watched the light settle into a spot ahead of him. He keyed the mike. 'Eglin, this is Easy Charlie Five. You boys got anything out here except me?'

'Negative, Charlie Five. You are the only military craft. We have a commercial flight at fifteen thousand feet, bearing oh-eight-five, should not be in your visual range.'

'Well, you'd better hit that screen with your shoe, Tom, because there's something out here sitting on my nose.'

Al could hear something being said behind Bodine. Another voice cut in, a nasal Boston whine, which he recognised as belonging to Rear Admiral Winthrop. 'Can you be more specific, Charlie Five?'

'The craft is – well, I can't see _what_ it is, sir. It looks like a ball of white light, estimate fifteen to twenty feet across. Light is too bright to identify any markings.'

'Possible ball lightning?'

'From a clear sky? Negative, sir.'

'What is the – ball's – current position?'

'Holding position directly in front of me. Estimate approximately one half-mile distance.'

'Is the intruder exhibiting hostile intent?'

'Not at this time.' Al frowned. 'I think it just – buzzed me, sir. Like a kid out for a joyride, you know?'

Charles Q. Winthrop was, allegedly, pure Boston Brahmin going back almost to the War of Independence. The term 'joyride' probably wasn't in his dictionary. 'Quite,' he said, noncommittally. 'Continue original course, Charlie Five; keep us apprised of the intruder's activities as far as possible. We are investigating here.'

In the distance, Al could make out a vague shape coming up fast, lights twinkling dimly along it. As per the original flight plan, he was approaching the coast of South Carolina; those lights were probably Charleston.

He considered the unexpected 'shadow' for a moment. He knew that if he reported this – if? He'd gone over the air with it; if there was no mention of it in his written report, Winthrop would take a knife and fork to his butt – he wouldn't be the first pilot to claim such a sighting. In World War II they'd been called 'foo fighters', and Allied pilots had wondered if they weren't some new development by Hitler's rocketry team, maybe the newest V-weapon. Now the preferred term was 'unidentified flying object', but the problem – and the weirdness – was the same.

Not a flying saucer, of course. Probably the only alien who really used a flying saucer was Michael Rennie. This little bitty thing – kind of like Tinkerbell in _Peter Pan_ – didn't look big enough to hold any aliens unless they were _real_ small. Maybe it was just a natural phenomenon, even if it was nothing he'd seen in years of flying. He'd swap notes with the guys tomorrow, if he got the chance.

Charleston, if that was what the lights were, was passing by below when the radio came alive again. 'Easy Charlie Five, this is Eglin.' Tom Bodine's voice again; Winthrop must be reaming someone, away out of earshot.

'This is Charlie Five, you are coming in strength ten. Okay, Tom, what's the skinny on this?

'We've checked with a bunch of fields from Baton Rouge up as far as the Chesapeake. All activity accounted for so far; looks unlikely it's one of ours.'

'Tell me something I _don't_ know. How about… hold it. Eglin, stand by.'

Al stared ahead. The glow was weakening; Tinkerbell's hull was becoming visible. It was grey, and looked perfectly smooth; no sign of handholds, ladders… hell, he couldn't see any _rivets_. No windows; how did the pilot see? And there, yes, there was a distinct marking. Al studied it. Nothing he recognised from any service, any civilian airline. It disturbed him; it was almost as if it made his brain itch to look at it too hard.

'Easy Charlie Five, do you copy?' squawked the radio. Winthrop was back again; there was an odd tremor in his voice that Al hadn't noticed before.

'We copy, Eglin.'

'We have your current position on our monitors. You are ordered to bring down the hostile. Craft are being raised to intercept you.'

Hostile? Tinkerbell hadn't as much as twitched since it had settled into its spot ahead of him. Eglin Air Force Base, on the Florida panhandle near Fort Walton Beach, was pretty close at jet speeds. Somebody wanted Tinkerbell _bad_. 'Eglin, please confirm your instructions. You authorise armed attack?'

'Yes!' Winthrop shouted. 'Calavicci, bring it down. Any way you have to. Do I make myself clear?'

'Understood, sir,' Al lied. This ran against everything he'd ever learned about rules of engagement. He didn't want to fire, but… He leaned forward on the throttle; the gap between him and Tinkerbell started to close, and the nose of the F-4 dipped a little so that it would pass below the interloper.

Tinkerbell zipped sideways. Al's jaw fell open. What he'd just seen was not possible. An aircraft flying at these speeds absolutely could _not_ turn on a dime like that; the G-forces alone would make the pilot black out.

However, not only was the intruder's pilot still functional, he was swinging the ship – glowing incandescent once again – right round the F-4, like a sheepdog studying a recalcitrant sheep. All the way around, until it was dead ahead again, in much the same relative spot as before.

And then, Tinkerbell stopped.

Al didn't consciously consider how the intruder could shed its inertia so completely and so suddenly. He yanked the control levers, hard; the Phantom lurched away to the port side and downward.

Recovering quickly, Al fought the stick. No response; nothing. And he was going down fast. No alternative. He jabbed the mike. 'Eglin, this is Easy Charlie Five, bird down, I repeat, bird down. I am ejecting at this time; follow me down.'

_Some astronaut,_ Al thought ruefully._ I'll be lucky if they don't bust me down to ensign again._

'And I guess the rest you know, sir. The F-4 went down just south of Manchester, Georgia; the recovery team picked me up nearby.'

'Yes. You at least directed the craft into open country; there were no deaths as a result. Very commendable,' Winthrop was saying. The old man looked exhausted; Al realised at that moment that someone was probably putting _his_ keister in a sling over this, too.

'Something you missed from your account, Commander,' said Captain Bach; he was drawing something on a note-pad. 'Those markings you saw on – ah – "Tinkerbell". Can you describe them?'

'I guess so, sir,' Al replied. 'Sort of a mixture of triangles and circles, with some kind of fancy swirls around the edges.'

Bach held up his handiwork. 'Something like this?' he asked. Al nodded. So did Bach. He picked up a buff dossier, leafed through it, a touch theatrically. 'According to your file, you have a pretty good record, Commander. Seems to have been some friction between you and a Commander Riker at a previous post, but that was eight years ago.'

'Yes, sir,' said Al. He'd been an ensign in those days; Riker had had a down on him for some reason, he knew. He'd never found out what it was[[1]][1].

'Ancient history. By all accounts, you're bright, talented, well-liked among your peers – and a damned fine jet jockey.' Bach closed the file and clasped his hands together on top of it. 'One might almost say that you've got the right stuff.'

Al wasn't stupid. 'I hope so, sir.'

Bach nodded. 'Fine. Well, I think that'll be all, Commander. We shouldn't need to talk to you again. You're dismissed.'

'Sir.' Al shook Bach's hand, then gave a smart salute and turned and marched from the room.

The guards, the stenographer and support staff packed up their materials, left to go about their own businesses. Only when the door closed and the three board members were left alone did any of them speak. Rear Admiral Winthrop rose slowly to his feet, looked at Bach with undisguised contempt. 'I appreciate, _Captain_, that this matter is a formality as far as you are concerned. Now that we are no longer on record, I would simply like to say that I hope that you and I never cross paths again.'

'I'm sorry you feel that way, sir. I assure you that there are sound reasons for our actions.' Bach extended his hand; it remained there for five seconds before he acknowledged that Winthrop had no intention of shaking it. The admiral stared hard once again at Bach before departing.

The third man – a young man with a strangely old appearance, who had said nothing during the hearing and had chain-smoked his way through most of it – finally spoke. 'Proud man,' he said.

Bach shrugged. 'I know. I hated to do it to him.'

'You think that'll be enough, Frank?'

'I meant what I said. Lieutenant Commander Calavicci's a good man. The Apollo programme needs good men. And if we concentrate his efforts on _our_ space programme, I think the chances are he'll forget about _theirs_.'

'I hope you're right.'

'We'll see. I think we should be able to slide him in with the next intake.'

'That's happening soon?'

'We're waiting for the final candidate, an Air Force major, name of Austin. He'll be ready to go by the end of next month. Calavicci can be held until then.' Bach slapped his left leg with a meaty palm. 'Good. Now that that's all over, why don't we grab something to eat, and you can tell me about this fellow Skinner you've been appraising?'

  


[[1]][2] Probably residual effects from Sam Beckett's actions in 'A Leap for Lisa', _Quantum Leap_'s fourth-season close, where Dr. Beckett prevented the then Ensign Al Calavicci from being wrongly court-martialled for the rape and murder of Commander Riker's wife.

   [1]: #_ftn1
   [2]: #_ftnref1



End file.
